


Vestibule

by Lafayette1777



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), anyways here i am to exactly no one's surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:26:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafayette1777/pseuds/Lafayette1777
Summary: Crowley is coming to understand his destiny; Aziraphale is coming to understand him, and the two of them, and the life they've built together.





	Vestibule

**Author's Note:**

> “Then you know that Dante accepts the idea of neutral angels in the quarrel between God and Satan. And he puts them in Limbo, a sort of vestibule of his Hell. We are in the vestibule, _cher ami_.”  
> -Albert Camus, _The Fall_

St. James's Park, though beholden to many pleasant memories, has begun to feel as though it belongs to a different part of his life. And so Aziraphale has decided to make his way to Hyde Park on warm afternoons instead, where he can be found lounging beneath an old-by-human-standards tree with a book and a croissant, or stretched out in the long grass, edging toward sleep for the first time in centuries. 

And, when a shadow falls across him, he doesn’t flinch.

“Right next to the Serpentine,” says Crowley, voice withering as he glances at the water. Aziraphale detects a certain fondness beneath his words, however. One that would have once had him worried for both their souls. “Good one.”

“I’ve been waiting here for ages, dear,” says Aziraphale, fluttering his eyes open and stretching his arms out into the grass. Crowley lands beside him.

“Have you?” Crowley asks, the edge of his mouth just beginning to turn upwards. “Ages?”

Aziraphale sits up and looks at him, eyes crinkling into a smile. 

In the days following the not-quite-end-of-the-world, Crowley has first and foremost felt pleased that he no longer has to think up minor sinful temptations for humans. Even his famous imagination has limits. In recent times, inspiring widespread tax fraud had bought him a few good decades without the supervisors in Hell breathing down his neck. Until he accidentally caused the Greek economy to collapse, which was somewhat more of an incident than he was prepared to be responsible for.

But there is something else, too, that has contributed to this new and unexpected feeling of looseness, of satisfaction, and he suspects that it has something to do with the fact that he and Aziraphale have been walking around together. Arm in arm, through the streets, undeterred by the possibility of exposure. For the first time in a long while, his place in the world feels insignificant, expansive in its anonymity. Mornings at the Tate, long lunches, evenings spent strolling Middle Temple Garden or elsewhere, nights drinking in the back room of the book shop—luxuries that feel almost earned. 

(He wonders, sometimes, had this been Her plan for him all along? Had the stars he’d breathed into being, the Fall, the years of yearning—had they all led to this, in their own ineffable way?)

(He thinks he can still hear her voice, calling his forgotten name. Almost. Sometimes.)

But there is something that remains unsatiated. That simmering unsaid thing that they have managed to sidestep for nearly 6000 years, that thing that given their unemployment seems now like it should be almost impossible to ignore. Especially in the early hours of the morning when the wine has been flowing and the two of them end up sitting too close to each other, somehow, in the close sepia light of the bookstore. 

“Do you prefer being a snake or being a human?” Aziraphale is asking, sprawling across his settee. The edge of Crowley’s hand just touches his shoulder; the warmth of him in this close proximity is nearly unbearable. 

“Um.” Crowley looks at the ceiling. A crack in the plaster spans the length of it. He should sober up, now. He should go home to his flat, take all this out on the plants, collapse into sleep. He doesn’t.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale says, scooting closer, eyebrows raised. 

“I dunno if I wanna tell you,” he slurs, landing a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Why not, my dear?”

“Don’t need you knowing all my secrets,” he says, and hopes the smile on his face is coy. 

But then Aziraphale plucks the sunglasses off his nose with such a simple grace that he can’t help but suck in a rattling breath. Aziraphale looks at him for a long moment, face only inches away. Their thighs might be touching, but Crowley won’t break the gaze to look.

“I know who you were,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Who you are.”

Crowley doesn’t breathe. 

The moment elongates; he’s possessed by the potential of it, more than anything else. In this new world, in their new lives in it, anything could happen, if either of them chose to take that last halting step. 

“I’m going to sober up,” Crowley says, finally, but then doesn’t. He just sits back, and so does Aziraphale, the space between them turning cold once again. 

He doesn’t recall falling asleep. In the morning he finds himself tucked in, a blanket pulled to his chin and a steaming cup of tea within reach. 

Aziraphale’s first time in Crowley’s flat is a result of the rain, or rather that’s what they both seem to be choosing to believe. It’s less stark than Aziraphale expects—the sheer volume of plant life is a surprise, even though he’s long known about Crowley’s horticultural interests. He fingers the long-stemmed leaf of something that looks like a fern while Crowley struts off to put on the kettle. 

“These are lovely, Crowley,” he calls after him, appreciating the depth of the green that seems to inhabit every cell of foliage before him. “Quite the plant parent, you are.”

Crowley looks over at him, eyes disguised by shades. “Yeah, well. Don’t give them too much attention. I don’t want them to get vain. And lazy.”

The rain has abated; a slant of sunlight cuts across the room, and when Crowley returns with a simple black mug, Aziraphale is basking in it, eyes closed. He can feel Crowley’s gaze on him, the heaviness of it—Aziraphale resists the urge to reach over and remove his glasses and leave them both bare. 

There was an archangel once that had red hair, Aziraphale knows. Red hair with a sharp point of a chin and dark brown eyes.

“Do you remember the sound of Her voice?” Aziraphale asks. When he turns to Crowley, the demon looks away quickly. 

“It’s been a long time,” he murmurs, trotting off toward the efficient, uncomfortable-looking settee. 

“You would’ve no doubt heard Her more than I ever did,” Aziraphale tries, watching him carefully. 

“It doesn’t matter who I was,” Crowley says. “It never mattered. Not then, not now. She never had anything to say.”

“Even when you asked?”

Crowley, finally, looks up at him. “Especially when I asked.” 

There is a version of Aziraphale that goes to Crowley now. Takes him in his arms. Tries to convince that he’s worthy—of what, Aziraphale isn’t sure, but he knows that he wants Crowley to feel it. To feel all that Aziraphale does when he looks at him, all that he’s only now coming to understand. 

But there are lines he still does not know how to cross. They are rewriting the rules as they go, rules that are neither heavenly nor human, and Aziraphale is at a loss when it comes to navigating these new, tenuous spaces. 

So he crosses the room and sits down carefully beside Crowley on the settee, close but not close enough. “Shall we watch something?” he asks, nodding toward the television. Crowley has informed him many times that telly has gotten quite high quality these days, and perhaps now he has the time to see for himself. He must remind himself of that, often—they have the time, now. They really do.

Crowley looks at him for a long time, eyes impenetrable behind his glasses, then reaches for the remote without a word.

Now that he no longer has to worry about appearances, Crowley has taken to joining Aziraphale for his usual Monday morning routine: sitting outside Victoria station and miracling money onto the Oyster cards of anyone who seems particularly down on their luck. When the rush hour crowds begin to thin out they get up and stroll in the direction of Vauxhall, enjoying the first crisp autumn morning of the year. They link arms; it almost seems like second nature, now, if Crowley doesn’t think too hard about the proximity of Aziraphale’s glowing warmth. 

“Do you ever think about leaving London?” Aziraphale asks, once they reach the bridge.

Crowley watches a duck bob on the retreating tide. “I haven’t taken a trip in a while. When’s the last time you had a French crepe? With the Eurostar we really have no excuse. Sunday?”

“I was thinking something more permanent.”

Crowley freezes, abruptly aware that perhaps Aziraphale could be, actually, speaking only for himself—that perhaps he wants to move far away on his own, start a new bookshop in Hong Kong or Perth or Vladivostok, and let go of all that reminds him of these last few millennia spent in a role he can no longer inhabit, the only role he’s ever known, as a principality.

He’s always thought Aziraphale would want to be rid of him eventually. Damaged goods, he is, and Aziraphale has always had impeccably good taste. 

Their arms are still linked, even as they lean over the stone railing and face the river below. Aziraphale turns his head, close enough that Crowley feels his breath on his neck. “What do you think of Brighton? Too busy?”

It’s a long moment before Crowley manages to breathe again. “I think something a little more rural might suit you better.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, turning back toward the water. “But what would suit you?”

 _Anywhere with you_ sits heavy on his tongue but he swallows it back and looks hard at the horizon. “I think it’s going to rain.”

They arrive back at the book shop quicker than they should—Crowley suspects some miracling may be involved—and just before the first drops begin to fall. A chill has set in, the first of the season, and Aziraphale putters around putting the kettle on and securing mugs with angel wings for handles, the chipped one for himself and the pristine one for Crowley. 

Crowley stands by the window, holds himself tight with his arms across his chest. The rain outside could sound like Her voice, almost. If he listens very, very hard. 

To drown out the sound, he says, “I’m so glad the world didn’t end.”

When he turns, Aziraphale is already looking at him, expression so transparently enraptured that Crowley almost can’t believe it. Aziraphale murmurs, “As am I, my dear.”

“You know I’m not him, right?” Crowley says, eyeing him closely. Waiting for the reversal. The moment when the light will leave Aziraphale’s eyes, when the fear will return, when this will all fall apart. “I haven’t been him for a long time. I’ll never be that angel again.”

“I know.” Aziraphale takes a step toward him, gaze unwavering. 

He takes another step, pulls off Crowley’s glasses.

Crowley doesn’t move.

Aziraphale is close enough to touch, now. “You’re better than him. You’re Crowley.”

The kettle chooses this moment to shriek. Crowley would think it was divine intervention, if he believed in such a thing anymore. 

Aziraphale looks at him a moment longer, then turns back to the stove top. Crowley watches his back, the brisk, simple movements of his hands as he pours out the water and adds sugar to Crowley’s mug. Crowley sucks in a breath, recalibrates himself, settles back into the mold he’s been inhabiting for six millennia—the one who waits. Who yearns in silence. It’s always going to be easier than the rejection, he knows now. Better not to ever be entirely known. 

Aziraphale looks down at the mug in his hands as he returns. Crowley reaches out, curls his fingers around the warm porcelain, but Aziraphale doesn’t let go. Crowley looks down at him and sees only the white blonde expanse at the top of the angel’s head. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, simply, then rolls forward on the balls of his feet and kisses him. 

Crowley is so surprised that the mug flickers out of existence in his hands. 

It takes him a moment to get his bearings—to locate his own hands and find them already gripping the back of Aziraphale’s coat, more than a little desperately. The sensory overload of it all hits him like a freight train; not even the birth of a star could compare to the rush of Aziraphale’s mouth against his, the close pull of his body like an orbit, the warmth of him radiating like a second, brighter sun. It’s the closest he can imagine to hearing Her voice again—joy and understanding and safety all wrapped into one.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. _Oh._

Finally, Aziraphale pulls away, looking at him carefully. 

“Angel,” is all Crowley manages to whisper, before he closes the distance between them again. 

In Hyde Park, the sun is beginning to dip below the treeline. It’s their last day in London, and Crowley is dozing against a tree while Aziraphale watches the day fade slowly into night. This gray area they inhabit between good and evil should be complex, he thinks, and yet somehow nothing feels simpler than this: the tall grass, the bowing stance of a nearby tree, Crowley close within reach. 

“Are you ready to go, angel?” Crowley asks, rousing to the sound of a passing family. 

“Me?” Aziraphale says, shifting toward him. “I was waiting for you.”

Crowley looks at him, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I’m sure I’ve been waiting longer.”

A cottage has just appeared in South Downs; by the time they arrive in the Bentley, the hearth will have warmed the whole house. Aziraphale stretches out a hand, and waits for Crowley to take it, but doesn’t rise. Instead, he settles close, falling back against the same tree. The cottage can wait a few minutes, Aziraphale thinks. For now, it will certainly be enough to sit in the grass and watch the world spiral toward its inevitable end, together.

**Author's Note:**

> lafayette1777.tumblr.com
> 
> come talk to me about this fucking show!!


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